Page 32 of The Fix

“Jeffers?” I whisper.

Several bottles—beer and liquor alike—dot the disorder like a trail of crumbs I follow, all the while doing my best not to touch or step on anything.

“Jeffers,” I call out, stopping beside to the upside-down recliner.

I heard the guitar but not this?

“In ever gotto—” The words are mumbled, spoken so close together that I can barely make it out.

“What?” I crouch, careful not to let the wide legs of my dress slacks touch the floor, and peer beneath the armchair when a painful cry echoes out from the cushions.

That sound quickly becomes a grunt and the recliner goes flying.

Gasping, I fall back, pushing myself away in time for my ankles to narrowly be missed by the projectile that crashes against the stone hearth across the room.

In its place is a feral Tobias with not just bloodshot, but red-rimmed eyes, a layer of sweat coating his exposed skin, and pupils so blown that the already dark color is gone.

His chest heaves as he whirls around, his gaze not landing on anything before he’s moving again.

“Whereshe?”

The scent of sweaty liquor permeates the room, and I skitter my way around the back of the couch, pulling my phone out as I duck behind the furniture.

Toby continues to mumble words I can’t make out over the ringing phone.

My hands shake and my butt feels like it might be bruised but none of that holds a candle to the anxiety twisting in my stomach.

I’ve only seen him this bad once.

“C’mon,” I whisper into the still ringing phone, my grip tight to the device when the line finally clicks. “Oh, thank God.”

“Anna?” Leo answers, his end of the line bursting with noise. “Hang on, shit.”

“Leo, Jesus Christ,” I mutter. “He was fine last night—well, not entirely fine, but he wasn’t this bad.”

“What?”

“It’s Toby,” I whisper into the phone as the man in question tosses something and things go crashing to the floor. “He’s losing his marbles and I don’t know why.”

“Did something happen?”

I shake my head and clammer to my knees, peeking over the couch cushions. “No—yes—no. I don’t freaking know, Leo!”

“Explain.” His clipped tone makes me scoff.

“Last night, he mentioned coming up here as kids. He freaked and ran outside. I have no idea if that’s something or just Jeffers being freaking insane.”

There’s a long, drawn-out sigh. “Fuck.”

“Um, yeah, that’s what I’m saying. Because whatever it was that you guys used to do up here set him off. Now he’s throwing crap and apparently drank all night.”

“Not us,” Leo corrects, and I drop back down, leaning into the couch.

“What’s that mean?”

Mumbles reach my ears from both the man on the line and the man in the room.

“Leo, what’s that mean?”

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